


The Compass Always Points North

by Irony_Rocks



Category: Predators
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're back on Earth. Now what?  Sequel to "Purgatory."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Compass Always Points North

_Fucking déjà-vu._

His guttural screams echo around the thought as he plummets to the ground. When the parachute opens, he’s dangerously close to the treetops of the rainforest and the chute tangles in the branches. Less than thirty seconds later, Royce is on the ground and slamming the drum magazine into his favorite 12-gauge shotgun. The perimeter is clear, not a thing in sight, until he hears something from above.

He has a second to react before he dives out of the way of a falling body.

Again, déjà-vu.

Isabelle lands with considerable more grace than him, but it’s a near-thing, missing him by inches. She shoves the deflated parachute out of the way, one hand on her gun and the other protectively over the small swell of her stomach. She’s five months pregnant; god knows what the rapid descent did for that.

“What the fuck?” she says, first thing out of her mouth.

* * *

It doesn’t make sense.

Why drop them again? Is this a new planet? A better preserve? Are they moving up to another level of the hunt or is this a way of testing their metal again, dropping the game into unknown territory the moment they got used to the old ones. His mind never rests on one theory for long before it’s supplying a dozen others, and Royce doesn’t know what to think yet.

“This forest,” Isabelle says, stopping behind him. “The topography, the climate.”

Royce stops to look back at her. “Yeah?”

She connects gazes with him. “I didn’t want to say anything before until I was sure, but…”

“What?”

Her eyes are full of disbelief. “I know this place.”

* * *

The skies are full of familiar stars and the compass always points north. It takes two days of trekking through the wilderness, but Isabelle knows the way. Their first glimmer of civilization is a dirt-beaten road, and another day of following the lane leads them to a crossing where a trucker picks them up.

"¿A qué distancia está la ciudad?"

"Por lo menos dos horas más, señor. Mejor que les encontráramos aquí. Esta es una selva peligrosa si no sabes lo que estás haciendo."

Isabelle trades a look with Royce. "Sabemos las selvas peligrosas."

He barely speaks the language but Isabelle is fluent, so he stands in the back while she negotiates the price of a ride back into town on the back of an old clunker. The entire time, Royce’s mind is racing. He's still going through the theories and the possibilities one-by-one, but deep down, he already knows they were released because of _what_ ; Isabelle is pregnant.

He just doesn’t know _why_.

* * *

The letters of the holographic billboard rotate above his head. It’s flashy and futuristic, especially for a dump like this village. It sticks out like a sore thumb, another item out of place. Royce focuses on it for a beat before scanning what could be called the town square only by the most generous terms. There were a few rusted cars with scrawny dogs sleeping off the stubborn heat, and a church rests in the distance.

The natives take one glance at them, and even their heavy weaponry doesn’t merit a second glance.

“Something’s wrong,” Isabelle agrees.

Ten minutes later, she finds an old dilapidated bar at the edge of town. There’s a bartender at the back, serving two beers to a man and what Royce figures for a prostitute. He takes a seat at a rusted pale-red stool near the bar. Isabelle disappears into the back.

“Soldier?” the bartender questions, with a thick accent.

He wonders what about his green camouflage tactical gear and 12-gauge shotgun gave him away. “No,” he responds with a firm voice, meeting the bartender’s eyes head-on. “Tourist.”

The bartender quickly looks away.

Two minutes later, Isabelle returns with a newspaper in her hand. “We’ve got a problem.”

She drops the paper in front of him, and he scans for the headlines that read, “ _Germany joins the Western Alliance in World War III_.” The logistics of that throw him for a beat before Isabelle is shaking her head and saying, “Not that.” She points to the top, to the date. “This.”

 _It’s February 18th, 2066._

 _  
_

* * *

_He palms a man’s wallet and finds them a motel for the night. The room is tiny, with stains on the carpet, horrendous wallpaper and lighting in the bathroom that flickers on and off in an annoying rhythm. He secures the door and cleans his weapons for the second time that day, needing something familiar._

 _“This doesn’t make sense,” Isabelle says._

 _He double-checks to make sure the rifle is unloaded, and pulls the trigger to release the action. A small push down on the release lever frees the bolt, and Royce removes it swiftly. He rams the rod and pad down the barrel of the chamber, repeating the motion several times._

 _Isabelle continues, “I guess it takes time to travel back and forth between Earth and that preserve. Apparently for them, about fifty years, give or take.”_

 _He nods._

 _“Goddamnit, Royce, say something!” She stares at him, thrown. “If you have any theories on why we’re here, I’d love to hear them.”_

 _He looks up to Isabelle. “We have to stay calm.”_

 _“Fuck calm,” Isabelle snaps. “It’s just you and me, Royce. I need you to _talk_ to me. There’s no Predators out there as an excuse to avoiding this.”_

“We don’t know that we’re alone. The Predators might still—”

“You’ve never needed to be told the obvious before.” Her eyes are desperate, almost angry. “They sent us back, Royce. They’re not hunting us anymore.”

It’s probably the truth; Royce resists it.

She swings the strap of her rifle over her head and drops the weapon on the mattress. He doesn’t say a word when she storms off towards the bathroom, but a second later, he hears running water. After god knows how many months (years?) trapped in that godforsaken jungle, the simple notion of a shower manages to dislodge him more than anything else.

After a beat, he sets his gun down and removes his bowie knife.

He joins Isabelle in the shower.

“You’re pregnant,” he answers her question, when he has her pressed against the shower wall. “That’s why we’re here.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Isabelle asks tiredly, incredulous. “That’s not a reason to let me go, and even if it is…”

It’s no reason to let _him_ go.

 _  
_

* * *

_They’re left with no money and, as a practical matter, no identities. For other people, that might’ve been a problem. They manage to make it to a safe house of his in central Mexico, and his stash is still there, buried under the floorboards. They’ve got enough money to get them where they wanna go. Royce manages to make arrangements quietly, because future or not, war or peace, some things always run the same way. Bad men, bad business. Royce takes comfort in that._

 _Problem is: “Where to?” the papers guy asks._

 _He’s got shit for ideas._

 _Isabelle comes up with the plan. The IDF has resources; they’ve known about the Predators for decades; they need to be debriefed; they can help. The list goes on and on, and while Royce doesn’t like official authorities anymore than he likes getting fucked in the ass, he’s got no better ideas. It takes them three weeks to reach their destination, and the entire time, Royce is half-expecting a surprise ambush and a Predator's attack. But it never comes._

 _He should be relieved._

 _He should be a lot of things that he isn’t._

 _  
_

* * *

_They’re treated like prisoners._

 _They ask him about the Predators. He tells them what he knows. They ask him about the alien planet. He tells them what he remembers. They ask him about why he was taken and why he was released. He tells them his theories. They ask him about his relationship with Isabelle. He tells them to go fuck themselves._

 _It goes on like that for a while. The entire time, they have him locked away in some colorless 8-by-8 interrogation room with no windows and a single guard, but Royce knew this was gonna be the deal going in. He’s quickly losing his patience, though. Especially since he’s barely seen Isabelle during the entire time._

 _Halfway through the third day, Royce is done._

 _They disagree, of course, but that matters little. When they’re transporting him back to his room, he fakes a stumble and ends up on the floor. The guard goes to help him up, and Royce grabs the man’s wrist, twists till he hears a snap, and slams a boot into the guard’s stomach. The guard goes down. Royce grabs his gun and brain-pans the man with the butt-end of his own rifle._

 _He grabs the keys and goes searching for Isabelle._

 _When he finds her, he simply tosses her the keys to a military-issued jeep, and says, “We told them everything. Can we get out of here now?”_

 _  
_

* * *

_Isabelle is eight months pregnant when they stop running._

 _They get a cabin in the woods, up near Ontario. It’s secluded and quiet, and more than fifty miles from the nearest human. Isabelle doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t argue with it much. The isolation is necessary, at least for now. They only go into town for one reason, and one reason alone. Supplies._

 _He rigs the place with booby traps just for good measure. They won’t do much against Predators (if they ever come visiting again), but they’ll keep uninvited humans away. The house is surrounded by a thicket of trees and dense foliage, and hidden among them are various in-laid traps. There are several pits that consist of a treadle board with one end spiked. He digs a few more, each two meters deep and one wide, and places thin long steel rods, hammered flat at the ends, so they’re jetting up and perfect for impaling._

 _“We’ve traded one preserve for another,” Isabelle says to him, “you realize that, right?”_

 _Royce changes the topic. “I’m doing an order on supplies. You need anything?”_

 _After a beat, she leaves the room briefly, only to return to drop some papers on his desk. “I did some research on the latest assault rifles. They’ve got some futuristic shit on the market, but the best ones are customized. I like the specs on this modified Steyr AUG-SR, with 5.56mm rounds, but I need it cut to my specifications.”_

 _Royce smirks. “I can work with that.”_

 _  
_

* * *

_He sleeps with one arm flung over her waist, and he can feel it every time the baby kicks._

 _Here’s the thing: when he first realized that Isabelle was pregnant, he thought of it in tactical terms. Her movement would slow down; her agility impaired; it’d give her motivation to stay alive, though. Isabelle always needed something to believe in, and Royce knew better than anyone that her protective streak never really went away, not even after all that time in hell._

 _But he isn’t the same, and he never will be. Royce was used to dealing with a certain degree of noise at all hours of the night, but a baby’s wailing has to be different, right? There are men who are supposed to be fathers, and then there are men who aren’t — and then there’s Royce all by himself in a category twice removed. The _are you fucking kidding me? That kid is better off with a bullet in his head_ category of men._

 _“When the kid is born,” Isabelle says in the darkness, perceptive as ever, “are you gonna stick around?”_

 _Royce is quiet for a long beat. “Don’t know,” he admits. “Does that make me an asshole?”_

 _Isabelle shakes her head and looks away to the farthest wall. “You’ve always been an asshole. At least you’re honest about it.”_

 _  
_

* * *

_When Isabelle goes into labor, the midwife comes to them._

 _The entire time, Royce itches for a bottle of vodka, maybe two. It’s twenty-three hours of labor, of hearing Isabelle scream and bitch and tell him to fuck off every time he’s within shouting distance, and then the sound of a baby wailing echoes through the small cabin._

 _The child is a boy._

 _“You know,” Isabelle breathes tiredly, later after the midwife has left, “all this time, we never thought of names. What do you want to call him?”_

 _“I’m not good with names.”_

 _“You keep saying that about _everything_ to do with this kid. C’mon, at least suggest a name. Any name.”_

Royce pauses. “Mason.”

That was his father’s name.

She looks up at him. “I like that.”

* * *

He sticks around for as long as he can — long enough for him to reaffirm the belief that nothing and no one is coming after them. After that, he waits long enough for Isabelle to put him out of his misery. They both knew this was coming; they both knew he was never cut out to be a father. Leaving this kid in Isabelle’s hands may be the best thing he’ll ever do for the kid.

If it feels like a shitty excuse — well, that’s because he knows it is.

Doesn’t make it any less true.

* * *

There’s a war raging, and where there’s bloodshed, Royce has his uses.

He works as a mercenary for the Chinese. There’s a battlefront near Kuala Lumpur, and Royce quickly earns his name and reputation. For the first six months, there’s a stream of small skirmishes and a litter of bodies. The world has changed — modernized weapons, futuristic technology, with a thousand and one different variations on the old theme of war.

It’s all old skin for Royce.

“Fuck, man,” another mercenary says, as he stands over Royce’s recent kill. He has always been a violent man, but this killing is exceptionally brutal. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Royce shrugs away the comment, wiping blood off his hands. “I’ve been around, here and there.”

* * *

The next six months, he spends in Haiti.

The three months after that, in Tripoli.

Then he’s back to Central America again, not too far off from where the Predators first dropped them off. He goes back to that same bar that Isabelle found, and finds it unchanged. It’s still a dive – sooty windows, sticky countertop, and a third of its patrons eyeing Royce with as much friendliness as a pit-bull greeting the mailman. He makes it a business to come back there a dozen times, though why is a mystery, even to him.

Tonight, Royce barely gives anyone a second glance, dropping heavily onto a faded-red stool.

Within minutes, there’s a working girl hanging off his shoulder. “Aye, papi, you look like a man that likes it rough.” She laughs, all sultry and low. “You’ve got the money, I got the time and _skills_ to make it worth your while.”

He tilts his head up towards her, and stops when he finds she looks like Isabelle.

She smiles. “You’re interested, I see.”

An emotion washes over him — shame or revulsion, or something else he’s never felt before in the presence of a hooker. “Chica,” he tells her, voice rough. “Fuck off to find someone else to infect.”

A flash of hurt crosses her face, before fire comes back into her eyes — and hell, she _really_ does look like Isabelle. She lobs back a few colorful words before she splits, and Royce pretends not to notice but out of the corner of his eye, he watches her leave, a tight feeling in his gut.

“What’s her name?” the bartender asks him.

Royce looks to him. “The girl? How should I know? We didn’t get to introductions.”

The bartender laughs while shaking his head. “Not that girl. _Your_ girl. You come in here every night, and I see the way you eye women. But you never go home with any of them.” He pours Royce another shot. “So you got somebody back home. What’s her name?”

He downs the tequila, feeling the burn of alcohol coat his throat and settle like acid in his stomach.

“Again,” he grunts, tapping the countertop twice. “And keep ‘em coming.”

The bartender is smarter than he looks. He never brings Isabelle up again.

* * *

When he finally comes back, Isabelle doesn’t look surprised.

She’s changed the layout, upgraded the weaponry, added a few fortified electric fields out back — but inside, the place is as safe as houses. With a two-year old kid running loose, Royce figures that makes sense. When he arrives on wet green grass, she greets him at the porch with Mason clinging to one hand and a sidearm in the other.

Royce doesn’t move an inch until she lowers the muzzle. “Sorry,” she says, while Royce muses that most couples wouldn’t have a moment like this. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

The kid is nearly two now, hiding behind his mother’s legs. When Mason peeks out, Royce is struck by the fact that he has Isabelle’s features around the mouth and nose, but the eyes — the kid has _his_ eyes.

“I figured you wouldn’t come by until the war was over.”

“There’s always a war,” Royce tells her, as he climbs up the front porch.

* * *

She reaches back in the fridge and brings out a bottle of water. She closes the door with her hip while she twists off the cap. He follows suit with his beer, tilting the bottles together in salute.

“I hear there’s trouble near the US border. You should keep an eye on that.”

“The war won’t spill over here,” she replies easily. “It’s why we picked this spot.”

“Still,” he insists. “Keep an eye on it.”

“I’m a big girl,” she shoots back, “who happens to carry a lot of guns. No one’s gonna bother me.”

He’s about to respond, but Mason starts crying about something and she disappears into a backroom while Royce is left to nurse his beer by himself. He looks around the kitchen, then walks to the end of the hallway where he can spy Isabelle in the kid’s room. Instead of interrupting, he deviates to the master bedroom, and he finds it mostly bare. There’s only a few personal belongings on her nightstand: her hair accessories, a watch, a notepad, her cell phone, a framed photo of Mason running between trees. When he opens the second drawer, he finds a spare 9mm, with a loose magazine clip at the side and the chamber empty.

Out of instinct, he slams the clip in and sets it on the bed for easy reach.

It never even occurs to him it might be a hazard for the kid.

* * *

Later that night, Royce studies her while she washes dishes in her kitchen as quietly as she can, trying not to disturb a sleeping kid through paper-thin walls. Her hair is loose, thick and naturally wavy around her shoulders. No make-up, no perfume. There’s nothing revealing about her clothing — just a simple black tank-top and a pair of slim jeans.

Her eyes flicker up and met his again.

He knows they’re thinking the same thought at the same time.

The bowl in her hand clatters into the sink when he kisses her. Her hands are still soapy as they tangle in his hair and the dishwater soaks into the neck of his shirt. He pins her against the counter, and then it’s all about pent-up frustration being released while she shimmies out of her jeans. She makes another noise, louder, strangled loose and her ass flexes, all smooth muscle and soft looking skin. He keeps stroking her and fondling her, and Isabelle digs her fingers into the back of his shoulders. She tilts her head aside, exposing her neck, and Royce follows her body to lick a path down her neck and chest.

He fucks her senseless against the countertop, hard and fast. They keep hushed, but they're used to that anyway. Isabelle clings to him with one arm wrapped around his shoulders, flush chest-to-chest, moaning and cursing his name while he makes her come.

When they finally move to the bedroom, he takes his time.

There's no need to rush.

* * *

The visit is goodbye, hello, and goodbye again.

He spends a week there. Any longer and his skin starts itching. Isabelle never asks why he came or when he’s gonna leave, and he knows she won’t flinch when he does. There’s a part of Royce that should be insulted by that, but he admires the hell out of her for it. Isabelle doesn’t take shit from anybody; she damn sure never took his.

But there’s a quiet voice in the back of his head — something whispering and small. It nags.

He finally gives it voice. “You don’t want me to stay, do you?”

Isabelle swipes a fallen piece of hair out of her eyes. “Life isn’t about want, Royce. You’re gonna to do what you’re gonna to do. I know that better than anybody.”

It isn’t an answer to his question, one way or another.

* * *

His next job is simple, almost painfully so.

The kill doesn’t take more than a few days, and then he’s lying low in Barcelona while the authorities hunt for the murderer. It looks like a simple killing, nothing overtly political about it. Royce doesn’t know why his client wanted the kill, and he doesn’t want to know. The mark ran drugs and guns, and he wasn’t smart about either. Royce did the world a favor.

There’s an absence of pride, though. Or joy. Royce can’t figure out which. It used to be there, before. He used to relish a good kill, a clean kill. Now he can’t stop thinking about the preserve, the hunt — how it felt to kill a Predator greater than himself.

He can’t stop thinking about Isabelle, either.

(He can’t stop thinking about the kid with her hair and his eyes.)

* * *

So his dreams are a bit like memories twisted in a new way, and fuck if he doesn’t dream about Isabelle and Mason dying at least three nights out of ten. They’re always in the jungle; the Predators are always there. Royce is a good hunter, but he’s never quick enough or strong enough, and in his dreams, he doesn’t have a thick layer of skin and a no-bullshit attitude.

He screams in his dreams.

There’s always lightning and mud, and blood everywhere. The jungle is dense and unforgiving, never-ending, and he searches in vain for Isabelle and the kid, and when he finds them, it’s always too late. There’s a pattern to it, but Royce never sees it until he’s awake.

When he’s awake, he tells himself it means nothing.

(It’s not nothing.)

* * *

It’s all a big giant game of chess, with nuclear bombs.

India joins the war and tips the scales. Pakistan retaliates by joining the opposing side, which draws in a half a dozen Middle Eastern countries and strengthens the Chinese’s resolve. Britain backs the US with more ammo and soldiers, and France holds itself neutral. The death toll rises, first in thousands, then slowly inching into millions.

No fuckin’ wonder the Predators are interested in Earth.

* * *

There’s a routine to his visits. It takes a while for it to emerge, but while Mason is still young, too oblivious to understand why a tall man comes around every few months to stay in his mother’s bedroom, Royce develops a habit. This half-measure, half-in, half-out — or more precisely, a third-in and two-thirds out — seems to work. It’s the most he’s ever given anyone; the most he’s ever _needed_ anyone. He can’t be a father or a husband, but he can be… _something_.

 _Isabelle never asks for more. He wonders what he’ll do if she ever does._

 _But it’s too good a tradition to break it now._

 _  
_

* * *

_On the phone, her voice is always soft. “Don’t tell me you’re bored already.”_

 _“I never said anything about boredom.”_

 _“I can hear it in your voice, Royce. You’re one tick shy of rigging a claymore just to see it go boom.”_

 _He half-grins._

 _Christ, he misses her._

 _  
_

* * *

_Royce was raised an orphan._

 _That should surprise no one. That he was raised by a nice foster family, though – no one ever called that. His foster father was a good man — strong, intelligent, distant but not cruel. His foster mother was a housewife, liked to watch classic shit like _Gilligan’s Island_ and _I Love Lucy_. They both died in a fire about a decade after Royce left, not that he kept in touch with them after he turned eighteen, but he looked them up once and found out after the fact, about three years too late. _Died in a fire,_ the news clipping said. _No surviving children.__

The point is: Royce was raised right.

He grew up to be a killer anyway.

He guesses it’s a natural born thing, something in his blood. Something in him isn’t wired the way other people got wired. He doesn’t blame society or his biological parents or the foster system. Science or God, he’s never really believed in either one, but he believes in blood.

He is what he is because it’s in his blood.

Ain’t no changing that.

* * *

Mason is nearly four when Royce comes back, half-dead.

It’s a gut-wound, nasty and painful. Royce takes another slug to the leg, and his mobility is impaired for a few months. He’s got nothing to do, and nowhere to be, so it isn’t surprising when he ends up on the doorsteps of Isabelle’s again. The surprising turnabout is what he does when he gets there.

“I’m headed out for supplies,” she calls to him from the garage. “Keep an eye on Mason while I’m out.”

“Wait, what? Can’t you take him with you?”

She raises an eyebrow, almost amused. “He’s a four year old kid, Royce. Not a fucking bomb. You can deal.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to argue. When she’s gone, he turns back to Mason, finding the boy plopped down in front of some blocks and toys. He seems self-sufficient enough, so Royce just watches him at first. Time slows to a crawl, though. After a while, boredom — or some other nameless emotion — forces Royce forward. He suppresses a wince when he settles in beside the boy, careful of pulling any stitches, and picks up a block.

The kid grabs it back immediately, almost annoyed.

Royce laughs.

* * *

She makes that _sound_ , half-way between laughter and arousal, because he knows she likes being crushed by his weight, being pushed into the mattress like the bed is quicksand.

“Shh,” she chides, voice half-throaty and low, “Mason’s in the other room watching TV.”

“He’s asleep,” Royce corrects, hand tugging at her waistband. “Got nothing to worry about.”

This life isn't half bad, if he’s completely honest with himself.

He tries not to be. It’s best that road stays blocked.

* * *

When he’s more or less on the mend, Isabelle asks when he’s gonna leave.

The question, to be brutally honest, catches him off-guard. He doesn’t show it. He starts packing that night, while the kid watches _Sesame Street_ or some new-aged equivalent of it with rabbits or some shit. He can’t even define why he’s pissed off, or even that he is, at first — but there’s a stiffness in his movements that Isabelle catches.

“I figured it out,” she tells him, softly, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom. “Why they let both of us go.”

He stops packing, and turns to stare at her.

“The Predators,” she continues to explain. “It wasn’t pity or mercy. The Predators let us go because they were breeding us, Royce. They were breeding us and Mason is the prize.”

Royce has had this thought, many times before. “They want us to make him a killer, like us.”

She shakes her head. “He’ll be _better_ than us, Royce. I know he’s just a kid, a baby boy — but he’s smart. You can see it already. He’s smart, and he’ll be fast and bright. He’ll be better than us one day.”

“He’d need training for that.”

“That’s why they let us both go,” Isabelle tells him. “We fought and then we bred, and then they let us go. They want our son, Royce. They want us to make him a killer. I can’t let that happen.”

It takes him a bit to understand it – and then suddenly, he does: why she never asks him to stay. Royce wouldn’t know how to raise anything but a killer. Bad enough the kid has his genes. Royce’s influences would clinch it. And he knows all too well how powerful that combination could be to a growing boy. Mason could be trained and raised to take on the Predators.

He could possibly do it better than Royce.

“Our boy deserves better,” Isabelle vows. “He’ll never be a killer like us.”

Royce doesn’t say it, but he thinks: _it’s in his genes, Isabelle. In his blood. Ain’t no stopping it now._

* * *

World War III finally ends.

That’s okay. Royce knows another war is brewing on the horizon.

* * *

  
 _fin_


End file.
